


Reunion

by TaraLaurel1



Category: Four Brothers (2005)
Genre: Brotherhood, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Family, The Spares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraLaurel1/pseuds/TaraLaurel1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'If it isn't Bobby-****ing-Mercer.'The line spoken by just about anyone else would have earned the person a clenched fist and a deadly glare, at minimum, from the bartender. Instead, Bobby froze, nearly dropping the miniature cooler. With a shake of his head and a small, rumbling, chuckle, Bobby turned around to face the source of the familiar voice." Pre-Movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

"Hey, Abby," Bobby spoke as he rounded the bar, slinging a towel over his shoulder. "Who's playin' tonight? And please tell me it's not any more of those 'I hate my fucking life' bands who just scream and bitch the whole time."

"Hello to you too, Bobby," the black-haired waitress rolled her eyes. "So glad you could show up for your shift for a change."

"Eh, was feelin' generous today. What can I say? I'm a damn saint."

"You're something," Abby shook her head.

"So, who's the band? Middle-aged drunken losers, some chic who hates her boyfriend, some punkass kid who hates his dad? I need to know if I should just leave now before I'm tortured again."

"Some group from New York. So maybe they won't be half bad."

Bobby paused. He had a vague familiarity seem to wash over him but he shrugged it off, figuring it was going to be another aggravating night of angst ridden teenagers. The club Bobby worked at was certainly no dive and brought in some headliners worthy of tabloids, but they simply weren't anywhere near Bobby's musical taste pallet.

"Can I get some waters for the band?" A tall, broad shouldered man approached them.

"I'm a bartender, Leon, not a water boy." Bobby spat.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Let me rephrase that. You're fifteen minutes late and two seconds away from being sent out of here on your ass. Go get the band some water or you're fired. And no alcohol. These are minors. I don't need a repeat of last week."

Minors, Bobby thought.  _Great_. They definitely weren't going to be his musical cup of tea. He grabbed the small cooler of water he was supposed to have put backstage ten minutes earlier and stalked off, not too keen on meeting these teenagers.

He made his way backstage and spotted three disheveled youth, sitting and laughing in the green room. One was robust and dangerous looking, while the other two were quite timid in their appearance, despite the piercings and tattoos. One even still held some of his baby face in his features.

"Well, fuck me," a low voice muttered from behind him. "If it isn't Bobby-fucking-Mercer."

The line spoken by just about anyone else would have earned the person a clenched fist and a deadly glare, at minimum, from the bartender. Instead, Bobby froze, nearly dropping the miniature cooler. With a shake of his head and a small, rumbling, chuckle, Bobby turned around to face the source of the familiar voice.

Standing a mere three feet away from him was someone who Bobby thought to be nearly 800 miles away, across the country. The teenager was certainly taller that Bobby remembered, but he did seem to soar up between every time seeing him. His blonde hair had been trimmed close to his skull, a stark contrast to the near ear length locks Bobby had last seen him donning. He definitely possessed more ink on his skin than the one tattoo Angel had taken him to get when he turned sixteen. His frame was forever lanky. That, Bobby guessed, would never change. Just like smoking would never change as he watched the band member slip the stick between his lips casually. It was probably second nature by now and Bobby had to admit that it toughened up his frail image a bit. He was still baby-faced, although Bobby could see hints of shaving neglect and marveled at the fact he was now staring at a man. The outfit was exactly the kind of wardrobe Bobby remembered him wearing. He had on a pair of weathered dark jeans, a thin chain, and a solid black shirt with a single white sketched pistol aimed at another drawing of a heart where the boy's would be under the fabric and skin.

"Hey, stranger," Jack cocked an eyebrow. "What? You don't wanna see your brother? Alright, I get it. I'll tell the band we're not doin' the gig and leave –"

"Shut the fuck up, Jackie," Bobby deadpanned and then grinned, reflecting Jack's crooked smile. "Get your skinny ass over here."

The two embraced briefly, with Bobby pulling away to grab Jack's shoulders and examine his little brother again more closely.

"Shit, man, look at you. All fucking grown up on me. When did that happen?"

"Time doesn't freeze when you leave Detroit, Bobby," Jack chided, but both silently catching the pained edge behind the remark.

"Damn, I knew you were going off to New York to become some gay, bigshot, rockstar, but I didn't think I almost wouldn't recognize you. Look at that hair, man! It's almost normal for once. Ma would like it."

"Yeah. Thinkin' about growing it back." Jack ran his fingers through the short mane and sighed. "So, shit, Bobby, what the hell are you up to?"

"I'm a damn lawyer, Jack. What does it look like?"

"Yeah, but if I know you, workin' at some club isn't all you're doin' here."

"Speaking of here – what the fuck are you doing in LA?"

"Could ask you the same question," Jack nodded. "We were on tour. Danny – the drummer –'s got his family here so we stuck around to do some more local gigs."

"Tour? Shit. So you ain't no garage band anymore, I guess." Bobby shook his head and mused. "How's New York? As shit-infested as it was when I left? You doin' okay?"

"I'm fine, Bobby. I ain't living on the streets if that's what you mean and I ain't into anything you'd string me up for. We're doin' good."

"Hey! Mercer!"

Both brothers spun around at the name.

"We got ten minutes, man." The more muscular of the gangly band members approached them.

"Did you fix that guitar strap?" Jack questioned with authority in his voice Bobby didn't recognize. "And the cable?"

"Yeah, yeah. We're all set, but, Jack, listen man, hey, Don Hadley is here."

"What?" Jack's jaw went slack and then stiff, his skin tone losing some color. "You better not be fucking with me, Mark."

"I shit you not he's out there in the damn audience, right now."

"Ah, fuck. Don't tell Matt. He'll freak out and fuck up. Just – shit. I'll be right there."

Jack again ran his hand through where his disheveled locks used to lay as he watched his band mate walk away.

"Someone out there I need to worry about?" Bobby's voice was laced with more than worry; more like, implied malice.

"If by 'worry', by you mean 'beat until dead', then, no, Bobby."

"Well, who the hell is he that he's got your girlie panties all in a freakin' mess?"

"He's a writer," Jack mumbled.

"Right," Bobby nodded mockingly, "those writers are fucking scary as hell. What's he do? Stab loser rockstars to death with a pencil?"

"Shut up, man." Jack's tone was on the opposite spectrum of Bobby's. "He writes for the Rolling Stones and a ton of online blogs and shit. He reviews artist and bands and shit. He saw us perform when we first got started and his article was the reason we got bumped from about a dozen gigs. We deserved it. David – our  _ex_ drummer – showed up drunk off his damn ass and couldn't play for shit. And that's before he took a damn dive off stage. This guy can sink or save your entire music career. His reviews of one band got them a fucking record deal. He's got his hands in a few studios and labels too. What the  _hell_ is he doing here?"

"Damn," Bobby again shook his head, "way too much bullshit girlie drama for me."

"Because organized crime is so simple and bullshit free." Jack spoke through his smoke.

"Exactly," Bobby nodded.

"Hey, baby," a tall brunette sprinted towards them.

Bobby eyed her curiously. She was sporting a pair of low black heels, dark cut offs, and a ripped V-neck shirt with some graphic design Bobby couldn't make out. Behind the layers of lipstick and eyeliner, a beautiful young girl was hiding.

"You're late," Jack playfully reprimanded the girl, hiding any and all signs of fear.

"Don't get your hopes up, lover boy. I don't aim on giving you any kids yet. Wouldn't suit that rock star image of yours trying to play the guitar and change a diaper on stage." She winked and then continued without missing a beat. "Danny?"

"Getting ready to go on – which is what I should be doing instead of talking to my girlfriend who almost missed the show."

"Eh, I think I've seen it enough." She teased. "Mom was taking forever. She couldn't figure out what to wear to a club – or a rock concert – or anything that's not Macy's."

Bobby theatrically cleared his throat.

"Oh, hey, Chelsea, this is Bobby, my brother. Bobby, this is my girlfriend, Chelsea. Also Danny's sister. Hey, why don't you go keep your parents from embarrassing themselves. I'll see you after the show."

The two shared a rather lengthy kiss that made Bobby want to clear his throat again before she took her leave.

"Girlfriend?" Bobby coked an eyebrow, his entire forehead lifting.

"Yeah," Jack mumbled, his boyfriend demeanor evaporated. "Fuck."

"What?"

"That damn writer. Her parents. Shit. We're supposed to go to dinner after this so I can meet them and all that shit. Damn it. We spent that entire damn tour as some no name opener. We're always the opener. Tonight is our first real big solo gig. I was playin' it down so I wouldn't do this."

"Do what?"

"Fuckin' freak," Jack pulled at hair that was still no longer there. "This isn't some fucking hole in the wall or birthday party. There's no big band after us that everyone is really there to see. I can't do this. What the hell is wrong with me? Matt always gets nervous. I never am. I can't be. I have to be on. I have to be –"

"Hey, slow down on the melodramatic musician breakdown, alright?" Bobby scoffed. "Damn, Jackie, you getting' all messed up for nothin', man. As much as I personally hate that noise you call music, you're good, Jack. You're damn good. You know what else you are? A Mercer. Mercers don't puss out. Mercers don't quit. You go out there and do whatever the hell it is you do, give me a damn headache, and show those motherfuckers, alright?"

"But this is our shot, Bobby," Jack sighed.

"No. This ain't anything. This is you, and your fucking music. Period. You remember how you used to lock yourself in your damn room and play on that freakin' thing for hours without stopping? You were so – I don't know – into it – you wouldn't even hear me bangin' on the door. This is a part 'a you. No matter what no reporter or girl or parent or anyone says. You go out there and you play. You play like you played back then. Then you go out to dinner, impress the shit outta' those parents, spend the night with your girl, and come back here first thing in the fucking morning to tell your big brother all about it."

The crooked grin returned as rhythmic pounding sounded in the distance.

"That's us," Jack swallowed as the bass guitar joined the noise. "I'm up. Thanks Bobby."

Without another word, Jack turned and jogged towards the back entrance to the stage. Bobby listened carefully when his brother's guitar melded into the music. Jack's familiar voice etched the edges of the melody.

It was then that Bobby knew. No matter what else changed; Jack's height, his girlfriend, his hair, some things would always remain the same. Sure, the music may have been that same headache inducing, teen angst, punk rock that Bobby had been dreading, but this was Jack. This was perfect.


End file.
